The Greatest Sacrifice
by gohkm
Summary: What lies beneath the hardened exterior of an Eldar Warlock? A heart of gold, or iron duty?


Cwelthan looked up from the pile of mystical tomes before him, and gazed into the bewitching eyes of Slyviana. Those unearthly green orbs glared back unflinchingly. By Isha, how long it had been since he had gazed into those eyes and seen the fiery love and passion within! Barely a century ago, they both had chosen to follow the Witching Path. Barely a century ago, they had also been lovers.  
  
But that was before she had been called away by Kaela Mensha Khaine, the bloody handed god of war and destruction. Before she had forsaken the Path of the Seer, and started down the Path of the Warrior. Before she had succumbed to the ultimate prison for an Eldar.  
  
Slyviana had become an Exarch.  
  
The Eldar possessed mighty minds, minds capable of plumbing the infinite depths of the universe. Thus throughout their centuries of existence, Eldar followed many different paths. Some turned to the exploration of mystical powers, honing their ability to foretell the future or hurling lethal blasts of psychic energy. Others became Aspect Warriors, protectors of the dwindling Eldar, fearsome fighters with unparalleled speed and skill. Often, Eldar strayed from one path to another, multiplying their experiences and garnering the myriad gems of knowledge. Rare it was, although all too possible, that certain Eldar became locked onto a single path. Obsession beyond obsession, such Eldar were so focused upon their chosen path that all else became fleeting. Eldar following the Witching Path who had been snared thus were known as Farseers.  
  
Eldar following the Warrior Path who had been snared thus were known as Exarchs.  
  
Like Slyviana.  
  
Oh, how Cwelthan longed for her touch again ...  
  
But Eldar did not dwell on the past.  
  
Cwelthan shook himself from his reverie. Once, a long time ago, she had exclaimed over the beauty of his wraithbone study. Now, the intricate formations of wraithbone meant less than dust to her. It was nothing more than a piece of cover which would shelter her from enemy fire.  
  
As for himself ...  
  
No! Eldar did not dwell on the past.  
  
He studied her. Even garbed in the formal battle armour of the Howling Banshees, save for the combat mask, Slyviana looked regal and beautiful. And yet, there was a tenseness in that beauty, as if she were ready to deal death in an instant's notice. The laspistol at her hip indicated in as much. Howling Banshees were noted close quarter fighters. Even without the laspistol, Cwelthan knew she could eviscerate an opponent with her mere hands. How he missed the peace loving Slyviana of long ago ...  
  
"I must go."  
  
Those words, spoken in that melodious voice he had not heard for almost a century! Such beauty, such force, such danger ...  
  
"Cwelthan, I must go. She has called me."  
  
The warlock swallowed. Losing her to Khaine had been hard enough, but for Khaine to condemn her to such a future as she suggested ...  
  
"I need you to divine her presence for me. Will you do it?"  
  
Her fingers caressed the carved hilt of the laspistol. Cwelthan tried not to think about that gesture.  
  
"Why did you come to me? The others would have been able to help you better ..."  
  
She blinked. A singularly strange motion in somebody who was almost beyond caring. Cwelthan allowed himself a faint hope.  
  
"I ..."  
  
She shook herself fiercely.  
  
"Will you do it?"  
  
Cwelthan's hopes crumbled. The distance in her eyes cut him more sharply than a blade ever could. He exerted his iron will, stilling the tremors that threatened to crack his voice.  
  
"Aye."  
  
He still loved her, and would still do anything for her.  
  
Even if it meant losing her for all eternity ...  
  
Cwelthan watched her stride out of his study.  
  
Only then did he permit the tears to come.  
  
* * *  
  
By Vaul, that was close! Cwelthan stumbled and almost fell. The termagant hissed, and raised its fleshborer again. The warlock twisted and called out incantations that would protect him. The fleshborer coughed, sending a hail of its ammunition beetles at him. As the beetles pinged off his warp shield, Cwelthan focused all his hatred and anger into the witchblade he carried. He swung mightily at the creature, willing the blade to strike hard. The sword burned coldly as it clove through the termagant.  
  
Iyanden was under attack from the alien menace known as Tyranids. The sheer specialization evident in the Tyranids indicated that they had been bio-engineered, a fact supported by clandestine meetings with the Inquisitors of the Human Imperium. The original fleet of Tyranid craft had launched wave after wave of creature-bearing pods. Even now, those same pods landed in uncountable numbers, smashing through slender wraithbone towers and erupting to release their loads. The Iyanden space fleet battled those gargantuan hive ships, whilst the entire population of the Craftworld had been roused to combat the enemy. More often than not, shells and beams careened off the shiny carapaces of the foe, and the Eldar Guardians and Aspect Warriors had to rely on chainswords and such to lay the enemy down. Even when thoroughly riddled with bullets, the aliens had flung themselves upon the defenders, tearing and slashing with mad abandon in their last moments of life.  
  
Fortunately, contact had been made with the Biel-tan Craftworld, and reinforcements were due to arrive. Cwelthan had been assigned with a sizable force to guard the Warp gate leading from Biel-tan. Should the Tyranids manage to penetrate this line of defense and destroy the gate, all would be lost.  
  
For weeks, as the battles had raged all around them, Cwelthan had stood helplessly by and watched his fellow Eldar slaughtered. His orders had been implicit: do not leave the gate even in the most dire of circumstances; defend the gate until you fall. He could understand the rationale behind those orders, but it was one thing to receive those orders and another to stick to them as friends died all around you. His fingers had itched to slay Tyranids, and today, when the outer perimeter had been breached, Cwelthan had gotten his wish.  
  
Nearby, a Striking Scorpion fell to the sweeping boneswords of some Tyranid horror. The monstrosity was almost twice the height of an Eldar warrior. Around it scuttled the smaller monsters called termagants, clutching a variety of nasty weapons. To his left, more warriors were being buried – literally – beneath a charging horde of hormagaunts. A carniflex was engaged in mortal combat with a half dozen Howling Banshees, and winning. The battle was looking really grim. Cwelthan decided to try for the bonesword wielding Tyranid warrior. With luck, he could despatch the damned thing and cause some serious damage to this assaulting force.  
  
A hormagaunt leapt at him; a swing of the witchblade left the creature in two neat halves. Cwelthan tossed a couple of grenades in that direction to discourage any more such gungho action. So far, the most shocking thing about the attack was that genestealers had been part of the force. Those insidious infiltrators had been previously thought to be warpspawn; it appeared now that all those analysts had been dreadfully wrong.  
  
Cwelthan reached his target as it was chopping down at another Striking Scorpion. Darting in swiftly, he took the blow on the edge of his witchblade. Seizing the beast's momentary surprise, the Aspect Warrior skipped to the side and let loose a blast with his mandiblasters. Those psychokinetic crystals impacted on the Tyranid's chest. Howling in pain, the monster turned its fury on that Striking Scorpion.  
  
The Eldar split evenly and took on a bonesword each. Chainsword and witchblade clashed resoundingly on hardened bone. The three combatants were showered with sparks as one of the boneswords splintered. Roaring victory, the Striking Scorpion moved in for the kill.  
  
Only to meet with the Tyranid's stinger-tipped tail.  
  
That cruel barb plunged through the mesh armour easily, tasting flesh. Its tip protruded out of the Striking Scorpion's back. Gurgling in agony, the warrior was helpless as the Tyranid sheared off from the fight with Cwelthan and beheaded him in one swift stroke. Enraged, Cwelthan charged in while the beast was still encumbered with the corpse dangling from its tail.  
  
Cwelthan's first slash took off one arm; his second severed the tail. A third almost clove into a hoofed leg, spilling purple ichor all over the ground. Stumbling, suddenly in more agony than before, the Tyranid managed one last shriek before the witchblade took it between the eyes.  
  
Cwelthan could feel the creature's death shriek reverberate throughout the Craftworld. He could feel the sudden confusion amongst the minds of its minions. All around, Tyranids halted midstride. The Eldar defenders lost no time in taking advantage of that lapse; chainswords bisected torsos and weapon fire punctured many Tyranid bodies.  
  
But the confusion did not last long. As the Tyranid death shriek faded away, Cwelthan could feel the building anger of the surviving aliens. All around, the beasts attacked with renewed fury. Unable to match their sudden ferocity, the Eldar fell back, taking severe losses. Tyranids swarmed all over them.  
  
Cwelthan found himself cut off from the main body of defenders.  
  
By about a dozen termagants and another dozen hormagaunts.  
  
Suddenly afraid, Cwelthan flailed about him with the witchblade, lopping off heads and limbs with a will. Yet, there were so many of them, that he was unable to defend against all their questing claws. Soon, he was bleeding from dozens of cuts. His robes torn, exhaustion threatening to flood his body, Cwelthan watched helplessly as the Eldar were pushed back all the way to the Warp gate.  
  
His fingers lost their grip on the hilt of the ichor-slicked witchblade; Cwelthan stumbled and fell to the ground. The Tyranids closed in for the kill.  
  
"And so I die," he whispered. His thoughts flashed back to that fateful night when Slyviana had come to him one last time. And I never even bid her farewell, he thought. And that thought was the saddest of all.  
  
And then it happened.  
  
The Warp gate glows a hellish green. Something was coming through.  
  
When it did come, it was not the warriors of Biel-tan.  
  
No, it was a single figure, clad in skeletal white armour. In one hand, she clutched a long pole-arm tipped with a glowing blue blade. In the other, a three-bladed throwing star glistened with black fire. Seemingly wearing a feral grin on her battle mask, the figure threw her head back and let loose with a howl.  
  
The sheer power of the Phoenix Lord surged through the assaulting host. That howl communicated all the loss of countless centuries, imprisoned within a suit of armour that slowly leeched away its wearer's substance. It spoke about the grief of seeing immeasurable friends and family fall to enemy blades. It gave voice to the agony of eternal bondage to the Eldar god of war and destruction, Kaela Mensha Khaine.  
  
Most of all, it embodied the only joy that the Phoenix Lord could partake of: the joy of laying blade to flesh, tasting the death agony of her enemies.  
  
Frozen with terror despite the urgings of their hive mind, the Tyranids could do nothing to stop her charge.  
  
With a furious cry, she flung that throwing star into the Tyranid horde. Where the warp-forged metal kissed chitinous armour, black flames blossomed. Bits and pieces of Tyranids littered the ground as the weapon completed its first killing round and returned to her waiting hand.  
  
Before the stunned beasts could react, the sole warrior had darted into their midst. Lightning crackled as she powered the blue blade in a mighty double arc. Tyranids screamed and died; whilst swinging that deadly blade, she still found the time to hurl the throwing star a second time.  
  
"Jain Zar!" Somebody cried out.  
  
The cry was taken up, and to the shouts of 'Jain Zar', the battered Eldar forces rallied. The tides of battle turned, and now the Eldar slaughtered their foe mercilessly. It was with no small measure of satisfaction that they exacted a heavy toll in ichor, for their dead that lay strewn all across the Craftworld.  
  
Simply watching the ancient Phoenix Lord brought strength to Cwelthan; he groped his way to his feet and found his witchblade. He took up the battle cry, and slashed his way through the Tyranids. Swinging killing blows left and right, Cwelthan was splattered in the purple juices of Tyranids.  
  
Within the next fifteen minutes, the Warp gate chamber was clear of Tyranids. Cwelthan despatched his warriors to pursue those fleeing beasts, and others to slay the wounded ones. Still others picked their way through fallen Eldar, retrieving their waystones for melding with the infinity circuit. Through the bustle of activity, Jain Zar stood watch alone by the Warp gate.  
  
Cwelthan made his way to her.  
  
Jain Zar stood proudly before him, bathed in the purple, tainted blood of the enemy. His heart swelling, Cwelthan stopped mere inches before her. Jain Zar regarded him with unscrutinizable eyes.  
  
For he knew her by a more intimate name.  
  
"Slyviana," Cwelthan murmured softly.  
  
Slowly, Jain Zar reached up and detached the mask from her face. Beneath it, the same eerie green eyes he had once loved – still loved – looked back at him. Cwelthan stepped back from her iron countenance. His breath caught as she raised the other hand and gently caressed his cheek.  
  
A single tear fell from her eyes.  
  
He grasped her gauntleted hand; kissed it gently.  
  
"Goodbye, Slyviana. Thank you."  
  
A small, forlorn smile creased her face.  
  
"I'll always be there for you, Cwelthan."  
  
She withdrew her hand, unshed tears still glistening in her eyes. Solemnly, Slyviana replaced the mask of Jain Zar upon her face. The three- bladed Silent Death in one hand, the glowing Blade of Destruction in the other, Slyviana truly looked like the ancient Phoenix Lord reincarnated.  
  
Turning away, she strode away, head bowed. With grief? Dare he allow himself to even hope ...  
  
She turned to face him once more. He held that gaze, straining as if by sheer will power alone, he could pierce that mask and look upon the face he loved for another time.  
  
Then, she stepped into the Warp gate and was gone.  
  
"Goodbye, Slyviana."  
  
Cwelthan knew that he would never see her again.  
  
"I love you, Slyviana."  
  
Somehow, he knew that she would always love him. 


End file.
